


Somethin' Else.

by wevegotworktodo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fancy-smancy Galla thingy, Salt And Burn, Saving People Hunting Things, Sex in heels, Smut, ghost - Freeform, haunted painting, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wevegotworktodo/pseuds/wevegotworktodo
Summary: So what if you kinda, sorta, mayyy-beee have a little crush on Dean? And maybe, just maybe, you haven't realized it yet. Not until the two of you have to pretend to be a couple in order to get close to a piece of artwork that's wreaking havoc in a seaside town. When everything you're feeling comes to light smack in the middle of the case will Dean respond the way you want him to?





	Somethin' Else.

You're in the middle of the grand ballroom-- hell, Grand doesn’t even begin to describe it, intricately inlaid marble floors, cathedral ceiling over two stories, balcony spanning the length on each side with a double staircase at the end of the room. Specifically, you're on the dance floor, which is weird enough on its own, made more so because Dean is suited up, sleek fitted tux, and he's twirling you around like he was made for this shit. 

And now it's gone too far. 

Things have happened this week. Odd things and strange feelings, and yea, you're feet are spinning, but so is your head. 

You pull away from his lips, just long enough to put it out there, maybe stop some of the fucking spinning, and the nerves, and the chills that are running up and down your spine. “You shouldn't kiss me like this, unless you mean it like that…”

*****

Haunted painting. 

Wouldn't be the first time. 

It would, however, be the first time said painting was worth close to half a million dollars. 

Sam had already done the FBI thing, visited the crime scenes, the morgue, researched-- narrowed it down to the one item all three vics had in common- a ridiculously expensive piece of art. You and Dean had hung back, wrapping up another case two states over, rolling into town just in time to help with the heavy lifting, and a cool half-mil is pretty damn heavy. 

The plan was simple-- you and Dean would pose as a hotty totty couple, scope out the museum where the painting is currently, steal it, salt and burn it. All before the end of the week when it’s scheduled to be auctioned off for charity. 

Except things are never that simple. 

**  
Striding along the sidewalk you get a good look at your reflection in the huge glass panels along the museum’s exterior. You’re finally semi-satisfied with how you look. A casual cap sleeve fitted dress in ivory paired with nude pumps, nothing too over the top for the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Dean hit the preppy nail on its head with khakis and a button down baby blue shirt, sleeves rolled up in true Winchester fashion. You're hand in hand- have to play the part- and if the two of you were anybody else in this world you'd believe every ounce of this charade- ‘cause yea you look good together. 

But you're not anyone else.

What they won't see is the plethora of scars, the dress carefully chosen to make sure they're all concealed. The bruises where you took a good hit from a vamp just a little over twenty four hours ago, a pale blue-purple nebula forming along your ribcage. 

“You ready, Kiddo?” Dean opens the door for you, palm resting softly on the small of your back as he ushers you in. It's a simple touch, probably not even deliberate, but for some reason it makes your breath hitch. You might not have even noticed except the sharp draw sends a fiery ache through your bruised torso. 

“As I'll ever be, and Dean, it's ‘Sweetheart’ ‘til we get the hell outta this place.” 

“Sure thing, Sweetheart,” and he fucking winks at you--his signature move-- the same one you've seen him give a hundred girls. The kinda shit that would make pretty damn near anyone weak in the knees. The kinda shit that has never, ever, had an effect on you, but for some reason your knees are suddenly a little wobbly when you take that next step. 

**  
An hour later you're rounding the corner to the next exhibit hall, “Hold up. I need just a sec.” Too much walking and your feet are killing you. You hold on to Dean’s shoulder while you slip your heel off and wiggle your toes. 

“Seriously?”

“They're new, alright? And could this place be any bigger? In and out Sam said.” Reluctantly you slip your shoe back on. 

“Come on, today’s easy. Tonight's the tricky part. Don't crap out on me yet.”

“Have I ever?” You loop your arm through his, smiling, ready to go. 

Unfortunately for your feet you have no intel on its exact location and no other choice than to search out your mark. You try not to draw attention to yourselves, going through the motions - holding hands, long moments spent staring at crap you think is ridiculous. You might be making mental notes of the layout, security cameras, motion detectors, etc. but you can't help feeling like you're on a date. An honest to god normal fucking date. 

What. The. Actual. Hell? 

Finally, almost two hours into this shit you find it. Quick corroboration with a pic Sam sent earlier gives you the green light. “Yep, this is it”

“You keep watch, I'll see what kind of security is rigged up to this thing.” Plan ahead, right? Dean shoves himself into the corner to get a look. But, it's between it and the wall and he needs help holding the flashlight on his cell at just the right angle to see everything clearly in the tight dark space. 

This is where things get tricky. 

You move in, holding the phone like he's asked but the angle isn't right. Three failed attempts and you end up behind him in the corner, arm stretched high over Dean’s head, light finally where it needs to be for him to get an idea of what you're dealing with back there. 

“Damn it. Take a look at this.” He bends his knees a little allowing you room to lean in over his shoulder. 

“Great, wireless. Magnetic, probably has an impact sensor too.” Dean nods in agreeance. Good, means you're on the same page. Both knowing full well things just got a bit more complicated.

Damn technology. 

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You're still hovering over Dean’s shoulder, staring at the system, making sure you didn't miss anything crucial. 

“You keep breathing in my ear like that--” 

Shit! “Oh shit, sorry.” You jump back and Dean stands straight all in one motion sending the phone flying from your hand. It's like it happens in slow motion, both of you trying and failing to catch it. It tumbles, clank, into the frame, then smack to the floor. You give him your best no harm- no foul smile, “Guess I was wrong about the impact sensor.” 

“Looks like. We got what we need anyways so let's go. Gonna be a long night.” 

***

You almost make it to the front door, almost, when you're approached by a man wearing a suit that's probably worth more than the motel you're staying at. The kind of shit you'd expect to see in LA, not Connecticut, even at a swanky joint like this. “So, you two are interested in the Ramsay?” 

“It's a contender.” You chime back, tightening your grip on Dean’s hand, and he thumbs across your knuckles, his way of letting you know he's with you. 

“We’ll be bidding on several.” Dean adds hoping to impress the suit, and you thumb back across his knuckles, an unspoken ‘nice job’. 

The suit is obviously not impressed, lips pursed in a way that makes his mustache look even thinner, beady little eyes looking down at you, judging you- smug little bastard. 

And then Sam is there, out of fucking nowhere, striding through the door like he owns the goddamned joint, flashes his badge at the curator. “These the two who set off the silent alarm?”

“On a silver platter, Agent.” 

Ugh! You knew you were right about the impact sensor, still have to bite your tongue. Takes everything in you not to thump that little bastard over the head just for good measure. 

“Is there a place I can question them privately?” Sam's jaw tightens, and you know he's pissed. 

*****  
“Easy in, easy out. What happened to that theory?” Sam. Is. Pissed. You know him well enough to know, even though he sits on the edge of the desk, hands folded over his lap, looking totally cool except for that jaw thing he keeps doing. 

Dean sits across from Sam, in some expensive looking leather chair. “Ok, for one…” 

You cut Dean off, sort of pissed yourself, feet still screaming, “For ooo-n-e. Look at this frickin’ place. Huge. And two…” 

“It was her fault,” Dean blurts, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in your direction, looking like a cute scolded man-child, “she was breathing in my ear, Sam! Made me go all willy nilly and the phone just…” 

Now it all makes sense to Sam-- why the two of you botched the job, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head as a grin threatens to pull at the corner of his mouth, “Ok, I'm going to fix this with the curator. You two go back to the motel...just-- stay outta my bed, will ya?”

“Are you insinuating that Y/N and I?” Dean glances to you then back to Sam, throws out a little whootwhoot whistle to be sure he's gotten his point across. 

Sam is so matter of fact, “Yes,” like he knows something you don't, and the entire aura in the room changes, hangs on that one word. 

It's uncomfortable to tell the truth, makes you squirm a bit. And a bit more when Dean opens the office door and the curator is a few feet away and closing in fast. Deep breath and you're back in actress mode. “That, Agent, is absurd.” 

Dean tenses, back straight, shoulders taught, then relaxes, silky smooth transition back into character. A smooth motherfucker that Dean Winchester. “Absolutely preposterous,” it bellows out, almost echoes off the marble, “We have better things to do than be accused of something so outrageous. Come darling.” It's over the top, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, but it works. The curator just stands there staring as Dean tucks your arm through the crook of his and you saunter out the door. 

***   
You're barely on the sidewalk before Dean’s asking, “What the hell was that?” 

“Improv.” 

“Not that. Sam thinkin’ we're-- you know.” 

You let your arm drop away from his, suddenly feel like a deer in the headlights. You chew on your lip, again, ‘cause fuck-- that's a question you'd like the answer to too. 

You try to stay cool, walk a little faster, choose the locker room talk approach to keep from delving to depths you're not prepared to go, “Maybe because you screw everything with a pulse.” 

“That is--,” his eyes go wide as his feet come to a screeching halt, “--not fair. And you know it. I like a little boob to go with that pulse.” Then his eyes crinkle in the corners as his lips pull up into a full toothy grin. 

“And I thought this whole time you were an ass man.” Not often you get to see this, he looks so...so young and free and you're heart aches heavy knowing the weight he carries. 

You stifle it down and genuinely smile back, laughing, because this makes you happy. 

This makes you happy. 

****

“So, Sammy, we busted or what?” 

“As far as the curator is concerned you're both banned from the museum...and the auction. But-- good news. He won't actually be at the auction.”

“The auction? You sayin’ we sit on it the rest of the week?”

“No way Sam, it's impossible. Not doin’ it.” 

“What if you don't have to break in? You just have to blend in.” 

***

Ok, plan B. 

And it's apparently a scene from a James Bond movie. 

Because when Dean comes out of the bathroom in that tux, fingers deftly buttoning the cuffs, you sure feel like you're in one. It's a rental, but damn if it doesn't look like it was tailor made for him, perfectly polished. Maybe you've just become immune to the charms of denim and flannel but… 

He...uh. 

Shit, he looks gooood. 

Fuck. Are you staring? “Sam already left,” you say, anything to help break your eyes away before he notices, “Can you?” and you turn your back to Dean, only because you seriously need help, not often you wear something this tight with complicated fixtures. “It's stuck,” giving a little tug up on the zipper just above the curve of your ass. 

The dress you've chosen is the most exquisite thing you've ever owned, maxed out a brand new stolen credit card to get it, and it was worth every dime. Full length, black lace. It's long sleeved and modest in the front-- to hide your flaws--but the back...the back is open, lace peekaboos your shoulder blades and then it dips, deep, just beneath the small of your back, hugging your curves before it flares out. 

Dress link http://pin.it/OeusTgD 

He clears his throat, swallows audibly, “Sure. Sure thing, kiddo,” still comes out deep, throaty, and when his fingers glance at the small of your back he clears it again, then pulls. 

The tips of his fingers are warm, but they still send a chill coursing through you. The zipper glides up with ease now that you're not pulling on it at an awkward angle, “There's a little hook, just above. If you don't mind.” 

You brace yourself this time, know how this is gonna feel, and even though it's nothing--it's everything. 

The task is completed before you even suck in another sharp breath and your body is tense. You glance over your shoulder, catch his tongue darting out to lick his lips, close your eyes and for a split second imagine how those lips, that tongue, would feel. 

Warmth blazes off of your neck as his hand swipes your hair off and over the opposite shoulder. Caught off guard you let a little whimper slip, but you don't think he notices. You didn't ask but he's helping with the top buttons, and you wish you could decide if his hands are trembling, or if it's your body trembling under his hands. Either way he takes his sweet fucking time, grazing both palms over your shoulders as he pulls away. 

“Ready?” it's still deeper than usual, but manages to rein you in. 

“5 minutes to pull my hair up.” 

“Yeah, ok. I'll be outside,” he says, grabbing the keys off of the nightstand. 

Swinging the door open your heart thump thumps as your belly flutters, both dropping out from under you when you step off the sidewalk. 

****  
“Crap, almost forgot,” you fish around to the corner of your clutch, past the necessities, pulling out two in-ear communicators, holding them both neatly in your palm, “Sam left these.” He’s offered his ‘FBI services’ as a part of security for tonight’s event, which should make this whole thing a tiny bit easier-- hence the sweet spy gadgets. 

You're both making sure they're in place as Dean pulls onto the lot. “Testing one-two.” 

“Loud and clear. You both hear me ok?” 

“Loud and clear, Sam.” 

“Good. Dean, valet the car,” he instructs. 

“Hell no!” Of course he's going to protest, barely even lets Sam drive, let alone a stranger- even if it is only across a well lit parking lot. 

“Dean, if you don't it'll raise eyebrows. Everyone valets.” 

Sam has a good point and Dean’s anything but happy about it, knuckles white across the wheel as he considers, eyes rolling when he caves, pulls her up into the line, “I swear to god, Sam. One scratch.”

Sam chuckles, “Yeah, man. I know, I know.” 

When it's finally your turn one of the valets opens your door, offers you his hand to help you out. With a handshake Dean pulls the one unlucky enough to be tasked with parking her up close, whispers a very detailed account of how he will suffer if something happens to his baby before he pulls away, rushes around to offer you his arm, leading you to the entrance. 

Damn, these things are pretty sensitive, heard every word of that threat and you're actually feeling a little sorry for the poor kid, “Was that completely necessary?” 

“Very.” 

“Whatever, Winchester. Go ahead and remind me again why don't we use these things on every case?” 

**

Sam also got you legit invitations, so you're actually supposed to be here, except… 

This is way more than you expected. You’d almost wondered if you were overdressed, but now-- being here, surrounded by the marble, and the champagne, and the beautiful women in fancy dresses with diamonds the size of saucers, makes you self conscious. 

You falter for a quick sec and Dean senses your hesitation. “Kid, did I tell ya how beautiful you look?” 

“Umm--,” Seriously? You look up, right into his eyes, and it's instant regret, can't manage the deep hazel bitten with sparks of jade, so you drive yourself away, “--no. But I did catch you checking me out.” you banter with an awkward punch to the shoulder. 

He swallows thick, adam’s apple bobbing under the pull, “Saw that, huh?” 

You're caught off guard for what seems like the hundredth time this week, and you're pretty sure there's no blood left anywhere in the upper half of your body. “Here, hold this.” pulling out the earpiece and dropping it into Dean’s palm. “Gotta pee, you guys don't need to hear that.” Actually you need to have a nervous breakdown but they don't need to hear that either. 

“Yeah--” his hand coming up to rub across the back of his neck, “--yeah, I'll be right outside.” 

You force yourself to breathe, it's heavy, chest heaving and when you look in the mirror you're flushed pale. You give yourself a good pep talk, half inner monologue and half out loud so you can see how unsteady you're voice really is. The quartz sink top is cool against your sweaty palms-- whenever the fuck that happened-- but you're breathing hasn't evened out yet so you're nowhere near ready to face whatever the hell it is that's going on out there. 

It's been like five minutes and you know Dean is pacing by now, you would be too if he took a five minute leak, so you suck it up and shove it down. 

You've got a job to do. 

He hands you your earpiece back and you subtly replace it while brushing back a stray curl. “Took ya long enough, another thirty seconds and I was comin’ in.” 

“You ever tried to pee wearing an evening gown? It's complicated.” 

Sam’s voice crackles then bursts through, “Heads up guys, auction starts in an hour. Need ya to head towards the stairs at the end of the ballroom, painting’s in a holding room on the second floor.” 

“Check,” Dean peers around the room on tiptoes, but doesn't see Sam. “Where are you?”

“Already upstairs. Making my way there now, gotta shake this grunt first.” 

***

You round the corner to the grand ballroom and holy shit it...is…amazing-- marble floors, cathedral ceiling, balcony spanning the length, a double staircase at the end of the room. It's also packed, a sea of fancy dresses and tuxedos, and you can practically smell the money oozing from their pores. 

Ok. O.-- K. This is intimidating. 

Nabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter you chug it all back at once. If you're going to get through tonight you're going to need a little something to help your nerves. A second waiter passes and this time around you take two glasses, passing one to Dean, who looks concerned, “Sure you're good, kid?”

The second glass you throw back as quickly as the first, “This social stuff isn't exactly my forte’. You know that.” 

His calloused hand wraps carefully around the stem, pout pulling at the rim of the dainty glass, “Mine either,” reminding you just how right he is. “Guess we’ll fake it ‘til we make it,” and he makes a little ‘knnn’ half knock/half smacking sound with his mouth as he winks at you, pulls the flute up tossing back what’s left. He takes your glass, setting them both to the side. 

You move closer, “How are we faking it this time?”

His arm goes up over your shoulder, cool, collected, confident, “I guess we dance.” 

You sputter, half-cough, almost choke on what little bit of spit you have left after the dry champagne. What the hell happened to just pushing through the crowd? 

From that reaction he totally gets that you're apprehensive, hell, he is too. “Hey. Appearances, remember?” The arm that's draped over your shoulder pulls back, snakes down to your waist. He tugs as he steps, and he's facing you, palm of his free hand glancing down your forearm until he finds yours, drags it up and into the stance. 

And then you're moving-- honestly amazed that you remember how, that you've made it this far without stepping on a toe or two, but Dean’s a good lead. “You never told me you know how t’dance.” 

“I still have a few secrets, kiddo,” and he flashes a mischievous grin. The kind of grin that makes you want to know all of his secrets on a very personal level.

“Any others you care to tell?” 

“Maybe, but not here,” he leans in momentarily, whispers that last part in your ear. The palm that was placed innocently at your waist glides across the small of your back, ignites your nerve endings, dips, then pulls…

Pulls you in closer, firm against his chest, so your thigh is tucked neatly between his legs, dripping with innuendo. But you have to get your head back in the game, give it a little shake to clear your thoughts. 

No way Dean is interested, you know his type, and you're not it, but you're going to enjoy it while it lasts, savor how it feels to have his hands on your bare skin, your body pressed together so tightly that you have to sync your breathing with his. 

You get lost in it and only when Sam’s voice splinters in your ear do you realize you've glided your way to the edge of the dance floor closest the staircase. “Shit! Guys, the curator is headed down the stairs, you need to move-- Now.”

“I thought he wasn't supposed to be here?’

“He’s not.” 

Dean glances up and he’s coming straight towards you, but maybe--just maybe he hasn’t seen you yet. You both shift, attempt to sink back, get lost in the crowd, but it’s too thick and you're trapped, exposed. You're suddenly wishing this was a masquerade, had a way to obscure your faces. A second thought crosses your mind and you don't have the time to talk yourself out of it, so you just go with it. 

You crash your lips against his because no one looks too closely at the couple who’s making out, and this just might work. You pull your hand from his, bringing it up to card through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. His free hand weaves it's way around your waist, lips still driven firmly together. This should be enough of a veil but Dean just goes with it, lips parting, deepening the kiss. 

It takes you a sec to catch up, to catch a breath, only when he tugs on your bottom lip do you become coherent enough to dissolve your own. His tongue urges forward sweeping across the smooth swell, between their juncture, until it's laced with yours. 

One hand has drifted up your back, then forward, cupping your face, fingertips threaded between the curls just above your ear. He's angling you, so he can kiss you even deeper and for the first time you moan into it. It's noisy, between the music and the chatter, but you'd swear he slips out a groan. 

Yeah...yeah--cause you feel a rumble in his chest. 

You pull away from his lips, just long enough to put it out there, maybe stop some of the fucking spinning in your head, and the nerves, and the chills that are running up and down your spine. “You shouldn't kiss me like this, unless you mean it like that…”

His eyes meet yours, piercing, “Kid…” 

Sam clears his throat, “Coast is clear guys. Time to go.” 

You both look up, see Sam looking down over the left span of the balcony. Dean goes a little white, shifts, deep breath, “Shit--Kid…” 

“S’ok,” you stave it off, nod to the staircase, “Gotta go to work.” 

***

“A salt shaker?” 

You shrug, “Tiny purse.” Twisting the top, you dump its entire contents over on the Ramsay which has already found itself in the almost too conveniently located fireplace. 

“Not too tiny” Dean retorts when you pull out a bottle of lighter fluid, streaming it in wide circles over the canvas. 

He's got the lighter ready, rolls his thumb back to strike it when ‘Casper’ materializes, the misty apparition throwing Dean across the room like a rag doll. He's sprawled out on his back, wind knocked out of him, defenseless against the spirit that’s stalking in fast. 

At least he manages to sit up--so that's a good sign, “Heads up.” Working quickly the fireplace poker leaves your hand, slides neatly over the hardwood floor. Dean sways, swings the iron and the ghost dissipates. He nods to you, chest still heaving, his little thank you. 

You strike a second lighter, dropping it in the fireplace. The spirit appears again, only to be consumed by scorching blue and white flames as the painting incinerates. 

Dean’s still in the floor, armed valiantly with the poker. He doesn't need it but you offer him your hand. You figure his ego would get the best of him but to your surprise, he takes it. You step back, get your footing and pull. “You good?” 

Then he's on his feet, “Yeah…,” momentum propelling him so you're chest to chest, close enough you can feel his warmth. “...yeah,” it softens, breaks, “I'm good.” 

The tension is palpable, quick breaths and racing hearts thud thudding in your ears, and yeah, sure some of it’s from the adrenaline of the hunt, but...

Your eyes move to anywhere but his face, focus in on the black bow tie-- the way the silk folds and creases, holds itself together, how it's sitting just below a day old stubble, the way his throat bobs when he swallows back. It's only then you notice he hasn't let go of your hand, but his eyes are following yours and now he's realized it too. “You good?” he asks, fingertips brushing the backs of your knuckles. 

You nod, “M’good.”

You go to pull away but he doesn't let go, tightens his grip on your trembling hand, “Kid?” 

\--And you let him pull you back in, body fitting tight against his expanse. His eyes fix on yours, brows twitch as he's gazing, soul piercing, searching, and you let him find what he's looking for. All the nerves, and the wants, and the longing. 

One arm snakes around your waist-- may be the only thing holding you up right now-- fingers electrifying every nerve as they traverse, palm sprawled across the bare skin of your back. The other glides along your arm, tracks over your neck, thumb brushes across your cheek as he cups your jaw. It's barely above a whisper, broken, “J’st so you know..,” 

He leans in, your eyes open just long enough to see his flutter closed. You wrap both hands in the lapels of that fitted tuxedo, just wait. He takes his time, slow and soft-- so unlike how you started this on the edge of that dance floor. But then things turn and he uses the hand on your cheek to pitch the angle. His lips part and he is kissing you like before-- tongue gliding over the swell, past the break in your lips, rolling with yours deep and brassy. And this time he does let a groan slip from the back of his throat, so you moan into him too just as he's pulling away. 

You blurt it out, “We need to get out of here.” 

Dean wiggles his eyebrows at you, “Can't wait to get me back to the motel, huh?”

“Yes…no...ugh, they're coming. We gotta go.” It's then you both realize that during Dean’s little flight across the room he'd lost his earpiece, didn't hear a bit of what Sam muddled about the guards closing in fast.

****

You find yourselves three doors down, impulsively harboring in the unlocked door. It's dark, just a few silver moonbeams streaking through the window. Until your pupils dilate enough to see you both fumble, end up close enough to feel the warm breaths between you. Something’s surprisingly different now-- now that the adrenaline starts to dissipate-- that you feel like maybe the forces of nature are at work on this one. 

Sam’s voice is cracking in and out of your ear, connection not so great anymore, but it's enough to know that A) he's fine and B) you're going to be stuck here a while. 

You relay the info to Dean, but neither of you seem to mind being hemmed up here together, “Wanna tell me those other secrets now?” 

God, you hope they're good ones. 

“I'm more of a show and tell kinda guy,” and even in the moonlight you're able to catch a hint of anticipation in his eyes. 

Alrighty. Well, that sounds promising. 

There's not much room between you but he shifts his weight and somehow now there's less. One finger under your chin tilts it up so you can't look away as he leans in slow. Your lips part automatically, and you suck in a quick, cheap, breath when his tongue presses past. He skates that finger down your throat, over your clavicle, before turning to palm across your shoulder. 

Heat flares through the scalloped lace, his hands meeting to pluck apart buttons. It dawns on Dean that he never asked if your game, actually wanna go here, and he hesitates. “Kiddo, you sure y’wanna?”

You breathe it into his ear, a whispered but intent, “Show me.” 

He groans, deep, strums the last button loose as you tuck behind the lapels of his jacket, push it away and off his shoulders. He stops long enough to shrug out of it, pulls off his bow tie. You tug, pull the tail of his shirt loose and start unbuttoning from the bottom while he starts at his collar. Your hands smooth over his abs, around and up, digging your fingernails in just enough to elicit another rumbling groan. Finally being able to touch him like this-- the noises he's making when you do-- has you a needy whimpering mess. 

Static snaps...then, “Are you guys?...Oh my god, you ARE. Jesus, THIS is exactly why we don't use these things.” Sam grumbles through. There's muffled static then a distinct plunking sound you can only guess is his earpiece landing in a trashcan. You toss yours too, drop it near your feet, watch as it lands atop Dean’s crumpled jacket. 

His shirt really needs to be beside it now, but you somehow manage to remember the cuffs, know it'll be a fiasco if you don't take the time to do this properly. Bringing one wrist up at a time your fingers work deftly across the french fold while you slide two of his fingers past your lips, sucking them in, tongue swirling over the pads. “F-f-uuuck,” he sputters out while you grin up at him. You repeat with his other hand, start to push the shirt off but before you can get it passed his shoulders he's grabbed the tail, spreading it open and shrugging it off. 

Your dress is next, Dean's hands slipping around your waist, descending to where the zipper starts. He hasn't forgotten about the hook above it either, “Take notes when you were putting me in this thing?” 

“Mmm hmm” He mumbles out between open mouthed kisses down your neck. Palms smooth up either side of your vertebrae, duck beneath the lace seams pulling the fabric forward and down your arms. “Been takin’ notes for a while now.” 

The gown pools at your feet, Dean just staring in admiration as you step out. He's seen you, let's just say ‘compromised’, before. Shit hunts and even shittier tiny motel rooms making it hard to remain completely modest, and hell, there's no problem with just a towel or a pair of undies peeking out from under your nightshirt between friends. 

His declaration- It was a declaration, right? Yea...fuck yea, he's wanted you ‘for a while’. His declaration has you reeling, feeling a bit more confident, so you reach forward, dip your fingers, and drag him in by the waistband. 

And there's more than you bargained for. 

Just beneath the seam of fabric your fingertips brush the head of his dense cock, circle for the button, slide the zipper. He's heavy against your hand even with the boxer briefs keeping him partially restrained, wetness flowing freely from your core in anticipation. 

You lean forward and kiss him again, his hands roaming your body, thumbing across your exposed breasts. In the back of your mind you're thanking yourself for saying no to the adhesive bra, it would've just made things all kinds of awkward right now. Dean’s lips take a detour south, catching a nipple, tonguing over it. His hands travel further down dragging the skimpy thong far enough for it to slide off on its own. 

Dean's toed off his own pants, looks your naked form up and down, like he could just eat you alive,-- stops at your feet. Eyebrows twitch, arc up and down, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and shit-- you actually see the breath hitch up in his throat, “Gonna leave those on?” 

It's almost pleading the way he says it, and your eyes trace his down to your black Louis Vuitton’s, “Paid almost $700 bucks for these-- plan on sleepin’ in ‘em t’night too.” He almost laughs but it's cut short by a groan-- his primal instincts, the ones that tell him to skate his palms past the curve in your ass, tuck into the crease where cheek meets thigh and hoist. 

You wrap your hands in the solid freckle dusted muscle at this shoulders, your legs around his waist, cross your ankles and let those red tipped heels dig into his hard ass. “Ah--jesus, yea---uh fuck--leave those on.” 

There's a couch somewhere in the back of the room he's taking you to. He repositions, raises you higher in his arms as he's moving. Fuck it's hot when he’s able to shift his arm under you, first one, then the other, using the free hand to push his boxer briefs just far enough...

And then you're sinking down. 

A flurry of adrenaline flares out, hits you hard, the same rush you get after a hunt-- the kind that makes you wanna jerk your panties to the side and get fucked against a wall still bruised and bloody because you're still alive, and you really freakin’ feel alive for once somewhere amidst short-lived victories and damning defeats. And fucking-A, man, you might even get the chance to try that with Dean sometime. 

He presses up deep between your legs, you level and smooth forward taking everything he has to offer, relishing in the sweet stretch of it. Of how he fills you, almost overfills you, ‘cause shit it's uh---- he's big. 

He does a 180, moves back until the soft edge of the couch brushes against his calves. “Oh, yea--ok,” you say, untwisting your ankles and your giggling when he plops down. Your knees hit the cushion on either side of his hips and you both bounce, a little more than you’d expected. 

Your thighs stiffen, body sliding up and he almost slips out, almost, but it's not all in the expanse, he's got length too. You still, right there, while he mouths over your nipple, tongue lapping across it. When he goes to pull back his teeth catch and graze around the bud. 

Heat jets over you, through you. His hands sprawl then squeeze firm where waist traverses to hip--and yea, you need to move too so you channel down, shift the weight off your knees and into his lap, bottoming out in one motion and settling there. 

You contract-- putting all those kegels to good use. He grunts, juts his hips up as if there's more to be had. His forehead bump rests against yours, pupils lust blown with barely a sliver of green left encompassing them. You tighten the muscles again and he clenches his jaw, closes his eyes, pretty near gasping for it. 

“Dean,” you sit back, squeeze, “I know this isn't exactly the right moment, kinda got carried away n’all.” Squeeze. 

“Fuck you're amazing,” chest’s heaving. “Shoot, kid, anything. Anything at all.” 

“We’re doin’ this again, right? ‘Cause if not m’gonna make this last,” you pulse around him again. 

Hand cups around your jaw, he kisses you soft and sweet, thumbs over your lips when he pulls away. “Kid, you're gonna have to kick me to the curb, besides we still got Sammy’s bed to ruin,” flashes a cocky ass grin that goes straight to your heat soaked core. 

Shit, as much as you'd like to stay like this all fucking night, virtually one, teasing and watching him struggle not to fall apart-- you need to move, you need the drag and the pull. So you drag the slick surge over his hard cock, easing up, slamming down. Dean fluctuates, resolute at the same time, rolls his hips, arcing forward-- every tiny shift brushing just where you need it to. You suck in stuttered breath after stuttered breath, let each one out in a soft nearly strangled whimper. 

Your hands fold in over his forearms for leverage, back arches, head and shoulders lull back, as you’re chased to the edge. There’s a fluttering in your core, blinding white sparks through your vision as it erupts and ripples through you. 

His jaw is clenched, edges of his hair sweat damp, hot and cool in your hands at the same time when you skate up the back of his neck. You were riding your own orgasm out but his hips falter, stammering once and now Dean’s in pieces and you're riding his out too. Shoulders lurch forward and he’s reaching, grabbing, gripping, at your back, your hips, your shoulder. His mouth gapes open, eyes flutter closed, brow furrows, and his head is falling back as his slack jaw is clenched again….

****  
When you arrived back at the motel there was a note from Sam saying he’d gotten his own room, and the two of you took full advantage. You wrecked the place, Dean wrecked you, you wrecked Dean, over and over. You’d both drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms a few times but a brush of an arm or a breath across the face would wake you and you’d be enthralled in the moment again. 

Before you knew it the sun was peeking over the horizon. Dean had a menacing smile and you knew something was up. “What are you thinking Winchester?”

“Mmm…’member when I said we were gonna ruin Sam’s bed?”

“Yea,” you mumble, sleepy sore muscles. 

“He should be leaving for his run in,” looks to his watch, “ohhhhh….10 minutes or so.” 

“I’ll get the lock pick.” 

 

*****************************************************************************************


End file.
